It didn't feel like fate.
Fate was poetic. This felt more like a glitch in the universe—because how else could you explain him being there again?
The second night was colder. Still November, but sharper. Like the wind carried secrets now. She wasn't expecting to see him again. Maybe once was a cosmic fluke. A shared night under the stars and a few swapped insults didn't mean the universe had plans.
But then there he was. Same hoodie. Same infuriating smirk. Leaning over his telescope like he belonged to the damn sky.
"You again?" she asked, tugging her hoodie tighter, arms crossed like armor.
He didn't even look away from the eyepiece. "You're the one trespassing on my sky, Star Menace."
She scoffed. "Pretty sure constellations don't have borders."
"Then stop colonizing Orion."
That earned him a glare. But she stayed.
This time, she didn't bring snacks. She brought a notebook. Her old one—pages filled with star names in messy handwriting, constellations sketched in sleepy lines. She sat down at her usual spot by the railing, facing the dark horizon like it owed her answers.
Minutes passed. Silence stretched. Not comfortable. Not hostile. Just… tense, like the moment before lightning.
"You always draw them wrong," he said suddenly, nodding toward the notebook she'd propped against the railing. His eyesight must've been damn good—or maybe he'd memorized the way she sketched Orion, even from across the terrace.
She narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?"
"Orion's belt. You space them too far apart. That's not how it looks from here."
She turned the notebook to him, defiant. "I draw them how I feel them."
He looked at the page, then at her. For a second, just a blink of hesitation. "...That's not entirely wrong."
She raised a brow. "Was that—agreement? From you?"
He finally met her eyes. "Don't get used to it."
And for the first time, she noticed it—the quiet behind his cockiness. The weight behind every correction. He wasn't mean. Just precise. Maybe too precise for a world that liked being messy.
She bit her lip, turned back to the sky. "I used to think if I memorized every star, I'd feel less… small."
He was silent.
Then, quietly, "You ever read about Eridanus?"
She blinked. "The constellation?"
He nodded. "It's huge. Twists and coils. Barely visible to the naked eye. But it's there. Massive. Just… hiding in the dark."
She looked over. He was still staring through the telescope, but something in his voice cracked through the cold night.
"Not everything big wants to be seen."
And just like that, the second meeting folded into something more than banter. More than proximity.
He showed her a faint comet trail. She lent him her stargazing journal. They didn't say much more that night. But it was enough.
Because real gravity doesn't need noise.
It just pulls. Slowly. Inevitably.
Toward something they didn't have a name for yet.